


An Old Language

by cjmarlowe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:22:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjmarlowe/pseuds/cjmarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Reichenbach, John and Greg find a different way to connect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Old Language

**Author's Note:**

> Porn Battle Prompts: bar, silent

John had never really been a big drinker. Sure he'd have a pint here and there, and if he got together with Mike Stamford all bets were off, but he'd seen what it did to his sister's life and she hadn't been the first person in his family to have a problem. But these days he just didn't give much of a fuck about that anymore.

"Another?" said Greg, and John just nodded his head. He wasn't counting, just keep 'em coming. "Yeah, me as well." And then there were two pints being slid across the bar to them, welcomed with a matching pair of nods and two hands reaching automatically and unerringly for them.

"Work all right then?"

"As can be expected," said Greg. John didn't ask about the troubles and Greg didn't offer up many details. He was still employed, still held his rank, and the whole ordeal had quieted down a bit now so things were probably all right. As these things went. "You?"

"Three days a week at the local surgery," he said. "It's about my speed these days." Greg gave him a sharp look but John didn't flinch; he _felt_ older, and slower, and less likely to take the world by the stones.

Harry'd said, "I understand," and "Give it time," when he'd told her something similar. Greg just said "Bollocks," and looked away and sipped his drink.

John came very close to smiling.

There was something comfortable about Greg's company, something solid. He brought memories with him, but most of them weren't memories John was sorry to have. They didn't have to talk about it; they'd both experienced them. They shared memories in what wasn't said.

Another turned into one more after that, and then another, until John was feeling loose and blurry and not good, never really good, but good enough. Good enough to flirt. Good enough to move in a little closer. Good enough to actually talk in a way that he hadn't found himself able to ever since...well, ever since. The only person he talked to like that wasn't around anymore.

It was well into the night when he finally turned to Greg and let everything, the loneliness and the pain and the hope and the longing, show. Greg looked at him for a moment, then drained his drink and stood up.

"All right," he said. "It's time to get you home."

John didn't argue that he just wasn't that drunk—and he genuinely wasn't—because he wanted to get out of there and he wanted to get out of there with Greg and if someone else was going to get the credit and the blame for the idea, he was fine with that.

"Not sure where that is," muttered John as he grabbed his coat.

Greg drove them to Baker Street, which was where John still kept his things but it felt strange calling it home anymore, when it felt so empty. Even with Sherlock's things packed away—maybe especially with Sherlock's things packed away—it felt like walking around a tomb.

He didn't ask if John needed help upstairs, or even if he was invited to come in. He parked the car around the corner and locked up and followed John down the pavement and up the stairs.

It was more desperate than romantic, grabbing Greg's arm at the top and pushing him up against the doorframe and leaning in for a hard kiss. It was a wonder that Greg let him, even more of a wonder when he gently unclenched John's hand from around his arm one finger at a time and _kept_ kissing him all the way through.

"I'd say I'm sor—" he started, but Greg clapped a hand over his mouth and surged forward and then John was the one backed up against the opposite side of the doorframe.

"Unless you want to say no," said Greg, "I don't think we need to talk about this." John tried to pretend a wave of relief didn't just pass through him and nodded his head. And then nipped at Greg's hand until he pulled it away again. 

Then they were kissing and stumbling into the sitting room, one coat thrown onto the nearest chair and one left on the floor. Greg dropped to his knees the moment John's back was to solid wall, tearing open his belt and pressing his forehead to John's abdomen, breathing heavy and hot on his jeans till he got them open. He yanked them down past John's hips as soon as he was able, hooked his thumbs in and dragged his pants down too, running his cheek along John's rapidly hardening cock before laying a sloppy kiss on the side of it.

It was the most intimate contact John'd had in ages, the most _human_ contact. It was almost too much, but Greg'd always kept him a little grounded so it all balanced out. He was one of the only people who'd ever been able to keep _Sherlock_ grounded. After everything, it was always going to be a thing that was either going to bind them or drive them apart.

Tonight it became clear which one it was going to be.

He bit down on his lip and splayed his fingers against the wall as Greg sucked the head into his mouth, gripped his hips with rough, strong fingers and _held_ him there. John didn't dare look, just sucked in breath after breath and stared across the room, stared at the ceiling, gripped Greg's shoulder as he sucked him hard, tongued him over the crown and down the vein, swallowed John so deep he could feel Greg's nose pressing against his belly.

He didn't try to hold it off, hold it back. When he felt the orgasm begin to coil deep in his groin, he gripped Greg's shoulder tighter and scratched the wallpaper with his fingernails and came with a sharp gasp against the back of Greg's throat.

When he felt him swallow, the sharp pleasure-pain of oversensitivity spiking through him, he wished he had it in him to go again. Instead he got his bearings, caught his breath, and scrambled to get Greg to his feet. He didn't get down on his knees but it was only moments before he had a handful of cock, still in the tight confines of Greg's trousers and jerking against his palm. He closed his fist and it was only a few quick tugs before Greg's head tilted forward against the wall over John's shoulder and he pressed his nails into the exposed skin at John's waist and he was coming over his hand.

The both of them could have made it last longer, but that wasn't what this was about.

As he led Greg stumbling over to the couch, both still mostly clothed and lying down wrapped around one another in the narrow space, he was glad that Greg didn't show any sign of leaving. Sex was a comfort, but this was too. It didn't have to be anything other than what it was.

They didn't have to talk about it.


End file.
